


Becoming King

by Greenspoons



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenspoons/pseuds/Greenspoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oswald's unexpected rise to power</p>
            </blockquote>





	Becoming King

**Author's Note:**

> Written to Postmodern Jukebox's jazzy cover of Coolio's Gangsta's Paradise

He was a pathetic son of a bitch. Or so he was told.

Even in school, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot was an outcast. To them, the boy who had a slightly pointy nose only existed to be the target of their collective scorn and humiliation. Still, he liked to think that it was the combination of his pale, thin face and his noticeably bright blue eyes that discomfited his classmates. Through all the jeers and sneers, he'd persevered, knowing that he was destined for greatness.

Then, he'd grown up but his prospects didn't seem to be improving. Oswald was less than a lackey to Fish Mooney, deemed only fit to hold the umbrella and massage her foot when she demanded for it. They begun calling him 'Penguin' to his face, simply because they enjoyed to see the helpless rage that would suffuse his expression. He was the charity case that her hired muscle would occasionally invite to their games of violence and intimidation.

He'd gripped the baseball bat, a lightweight metal affair, with an excitement that had lain dormant in him long enough and let himself go. He sought the man's cries of pain but more to the point, craved the disapproval plain on Gilzean's face when he was told that it was enough.

It wasn't. Far from it.

Emboldened, he met with the two detectives in secret. On hindsight, it was a sound plan, ruined only by his carelessness which he swore never to repeat. Mooney's rough edges frightened him the same way he knew it did to her fucking pet- boys. That night, when her eyes had glittered dangerously with the knowledge that he had snitched on her, he'd played the card of a loyal servant. But she had to mock him with the one name he despised most and false bravado propelled him forward with the knife in hand. He'd been so sure that it was the chance he longed for. Oswald learned the hard way that Mooney was no woman to be trifled with.

Everyone regarded him with a sort of condescension, foolishly unaware of the hint of cunning in his eyes. Gradually he'd learned that it was more advantageous to be the stiff and awkward boy everyone liked to assume he was.

It has been said to the point of exhaustion that knowledge is power. Whether one actually had the intention of using the information gleaned was of a lesser concern. Deep down, he always knew that serving the city's only female mobster would prove beneficial to his own agenda.

In his own way, he always wanted to one day be in the presence of Carmine Falcone, Gotham's most powerful mob boss. What he hadn't given much thought to, however, was the fact that it meant having to bargain for his life. Yes, he had very vital information but he loathed the note of desperation that he couldn't keep out of his voice.

Many who considered themselves loyal to Salvatore Maroni simply saw Oswald as the snivelling sycophant in Maroni's kitchen that had dreams too huge for his person. At first, it frustrated him but coming back from the dead had changed him. No longer was he the subservient lackey who has yet to taste the thrill of his first kill. He wanted others to see what a wimpy, milquetoast he was and freezing his butt off in a freezer was a price he could pay.

It was a fucking masterpiece, if he was to say so himself. The cannoli had lend the whole business a decidedly Italian touch, on ode to the city's long- standing criminal families who would soon meet their downfall in his hands.

Oswald didn't suffer fools gladly, but Frankie Carbone had made it too easy. He never had been much good at resisting the opportunity to teach a good lesson, and Carbone was practically asking for it. What the city needed, more than anything else its politicians could promise, was an element of class. The cheapskate, skinflint piece of shit's life had bled out onto his fingers and the crimson stickiness encouraged him to stick it into the man's guts repeatedly, twisting viciously.

 _Love conquers all_ , Oswald had said as the life seeped out of the body of Maroni's second- in- command.

The nightclub with its blue neon umbrella and Oswald's ownership all over it, had been the glaring validation that he'd finally made it. His mother had taken it all in, transfixed by the elegance of the glittering chandeliers and velvet sofas. Pride was audible in his dear mother's voice when he told her that the place with its suggestively opulent interior belonged to her son. There was no one he loved more than his mother, who deserved every bit of his new, rich life. He had never been closer to giving the wealthy Cobblepot family name a new lease of life, and to restore his mother to the wealthy society dame she once was.

His life had been on an upward trajectory since then. All under Falcone of course, but he was in no hurry to reach to the top. He had come a long way to gain the wealth that he personally desired and Oswald must lie in wait to be worthy of his throne. Patience did nothing to diminish his love of power and the comfort and security that it promised him.

The gang war that tore apart Gotham's streets had been a brilliant concoction of his mind. It would've been remarkably easy to take out Falcone, had Gotham's cleanest cop not interfered. No, James was a friend that still owed him a favor and despite everything, had chosen to take the Napoleon's side over his. Now the old git had ceded the control of the city to anyone who would seize the opportunity, and who else was left but Oswald?

Oswald was no weakling. He'd claw, kick and kill his way through if it meant surviving in a city that held back no punches. So he did what he had always wanted to, casually flipping Fish over the rooftop and into a dark watery grave. The irony of it being the same sort of death she'd sentenced him to was not lost on him.

_He is the fittest of them all._

As he basks in the victory of being the city's sole mob boss, the lone figure on a Gotham rooftop laughs, a squawking laughter that would soon be his signature.

The waddling son of a bitch that everyone made fun of is now Gotham's king.

Long live the Penguin.


End file.
